


In Ten Years, You'll Never Know This Even Happened

by kaesaria



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky has no agency, Daddy Issues, Dark, HYDRA Trash Party, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Tony Stark, M/M, Self-Destructive Behavior, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, dubcon that quickly veers into non-con, starts awful and ends worse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 15:44:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8333278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaesaria/pseuds/kaesaria
Summary: Maybe that last drink hadn't been such a good idea. Or maybe that last hit._____Written in response to a prompt on the trashmeme.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place pre-movies, when Tony is in his late teens/early twenties (and before his parents' death).
> 
> **Lots of awfulness ahead. Mind the tags and read at your own risk.**

****“Hey, okay,” Tony says. There’s cold air brushing at his ass now where his jeans were a second ago. He tries help, make his legs work the right way to step out of his pants, but suddenly that's not an issue anymore. A tearing sound, and ripped denim pooled around his ankles. Probably this is going to be a concern in a while, when he's sober enough to start caring again.  
  
The guy still hasn’t said anything. He’s hot as fuck though, dark eyes and dark hair falling to hide his face, and his body is hard all over. All gravelly voice and smooth skin covering muscles ripped like nothing Tony’s seen before outside of pornos and sex clubs. And he hadn’t even been at one of those tonight, he doesn't think.  
  
Admittedly, it’s kind of hard to think at all past the roiling haze in his head and the supreme effort it's taking right now to hold back from throwing up. Maybe that last drink hadn't been such a good idea. Or maybe that last hit.  
  
“Shut up,” Mr. Muscles says, and it’s the last thing Tony hears before he’s spun around, rough, his cheek pushed against the wall of the alley behind the—bar? strip club? wherever the fuck he’s staging his rebellion tonight.  
  
The various fronts of the guerrilla war against Howard tend to blur in his head just like this dirty alleyway is blurring in front of his eyes right now and—god, he hopes this guy is fast, fast enough to finish fucking him before Tony loses the contents of his stomach in a supremely uncool way, all over this dirty brick and down the front of his own designer t-shirt. Plain and white and Givenchy, a thousand plus dollars on Howard's black plastic; sure to give the old man a fit once he sees this month's—  
  
“Fuck,” Tony grunts, the sound pulled out of him by the dry scrape of a thick finger pressed into him, and Jesus, no give at all, like a metal dildo under that leather glove. Tony cranes his head to look back and it really is just the guy’s hand. It’s shoving further into him now, and okay, that’s totally fine, it’s exactly what he’d followed Mr. Muscles out here for—but seriously, hasn’t the guy ever heard of lube? Or at least a little spit to ease the way, for fuck’s sake?  
  
“I’ve got, _fuck_ , stuff in my pocket, just lemmie—” but Muscles apparently isn’t in a listening mood right now. There’s another hard shove—two fingers now, Tony thinks dazedly—and suddenly the scrape of brick against his cheek takes a second seat to the urgent, alarmingly abrasive pressure at his hole.  
  
It’s enough to break through some of the fuzz in his brain, and the still-sadly-sober part of Tony’s brain is starting to have vague misgivings about tonight’s particular insurrection. No fun in rubbing his sleazy stand in Howard’s face if he can’t actually stand up tomorrow.  
  
Tony starts to push back a little—instinctively, if still pretty woozily—to wrench his neck out of Muscles’ iron grip around the back of his neck. But there’s no give. It’s like the guy is made of stuff just as unmovable as the wall he’s holding Tony against.  
  
“Stop moving,” comes the order, rough and hot against Tony’s ear. “Stop struggling. Or they’ll make me hurt you.”  
  
They? Who the fuck is _they_?  
  
Vague misgivings are starting to coalesce into into serious doubts by now, but Tony’s next jerk for freedom is even less effective than the first. This guy isn’t planning on leaving anytime soon. His fingers are still inside of Tony, still as intrusive and insistent as they were when Tony was still a hundred percent on board with the proceedings.  
  
But hey, he’s still on board, isn’t he? Tony focuses on pushing down the icy unease that’s starting to run up his spine, acrid and bitingly clear in contrast to the hazy churn in his head and gut.  
  
He’d come out here of his own volition after all; it’s not on Muscles if Tony’s irritating brain is starting to sober up way ahead of schedule. He’d met those dark eyes head-on, hadn’t he? He’d run his gaze over Muscles’ body, sharp and shameless, cocked his own hips out in invitation. He’d thrown back the drink the guy had brought him, no compunctions there. Tony’s not the kind to set up a tease then refuse to see things through.  
  
Anyway, what the fuck choice does he have now. This guy isn’t going to stop—that’s fucking clear as day by now. It’ll just be awkward all around if Tony tries to act like he’s suddenly being pushed into something something he doesn’t want, something he hadn’t been asking for all along—  
  
Another hard shove, and Muscles is starting to scissor his fingers now, opening up the way for the main act. Tony presses his face into the wall, shuffles his feet another couple of inches apart, and lets him.  
  
“Yes, like that,” the guy approves. “It’ll hurt less if you don’t fight.”  
  
“Fine, yeah, whatever,” Tony mumbles into the wall. He focuses on relaxing his body, on letting the fingers stretch him without damaging anything beyond repair. The hand on the back of his neck has relaxed just a tiny bit, enough to let Tony breath a little easier at least, though still not enough to let him wriggle away. Way too late for that. But maybe—  
  
“Okay, big guy, I know what you want. You gonna let me take care of you?”  
  
There’s a surprised pause behind him, and Tony takes advantage of the break to unclench his left hand from its death grip on the wall. He manages to turn his head just enough to spit onto his fingers. Muscles doesn’t stop him as he reaches back to smear the wetness at his hole, letting the spit drip onto the gloved fingers that are pressing into him. It’s not much, but it’ll be better than a total dry fuck. Hopefully.  
  
He doesn’t have time to do much more than that before a rough hand—this one ungloved—grabs his wrist and presses it against the wall again, hard. It’s an order to stay still or else, Tony reads that loud and clear, yes sir and thank you, his genius IQ’s not for nothing. A fresh roil in his gut, and Tony braces both his hands flat against the wall and goes back to focusing hard on not throwing up. He hears Muscles reach down to unzip and pull himself out.  
  
_It’ll hurt less if you don’t fight_ , the guy had said. Tony’s not one to ignore some fucking solid advice, even if it’s hard as hell to make his body obey and bear down, relax, as Muscles pushes into him. God, the guy is gigantic, it seems to go on forever and the spit wasn’t enough even for the first burning inch, that’s fucking painfully obvious, and there’s a million more behind it. Tony breathes and breathes and bites his lips shut to keep from whimpering.  
  
When the guy finally bottoms out, he pushes forward hard enough to wrench a low grunt out of Tony. There’s just enough time to pull in one unsteady breath before Muscles starts pulling out, the ungloved hand coming down in a bruising grip at Tony’s hip to hold him still and— _Jesus_ —it’s almost worse than the going in had been.  
  
On top of everything, Tony’s head is still hazy, his gut is still jumping in sick lurches. He’d have thought being drunk and high beyond the telling of it would make this—whatever the fuck this is—feel less awful, or at least further away, but it doesn’t, it somehow makes it all worse.  
  
That’s when the guy starts thrusting for real and Tony jerks uselessly, no escape between the brick in front of him and the rock wall of the invading body behind. It’s gratingly, abrasively awful for the first few strokes, then something _gives_ inside, a sharp, tearing pain and—things are smoother, unnaturally slick all of a sudden.  
  
It still hurts though, no fun at all anymore, and Tony’s dick has gone completely soft against the unyielding press of the alley wall, the stabs that shove him against it with every thrust. Had his cock ever even gotten interested? It’s hard to remember now past the pitching nausea, past the rough scrape of the brick against his skin, past the awful, wet stabs inside of him.  
  
Tony clenches his eyes shut and focuses on holding back the most embarrassing sounds, along with the vomit. Nothing to do now except ride this out; Muscles can’t last forever. Anyway, it’s not like this is the worst thing Tony’s ever done, and it’ll be worth it in the morning, for the righteous shock-and-disgust painted all over Howard’s face. He tries to hold onto that thought.  
  
The guy’s gloved hand is still gripping Tony’s hip, impossibly hard; brutal, fucking _pointless_ pain since it’s not like Tony’s trying to get away.  
  
But the other hand is wrapped around the back of his neck, fingers digging into his flesh and that’s more useful—it’s going to leave glaring, brazen bruises for Howard to see. Tony makes himself focus on that. The bruises are why he’s doing this, allowing this, along with the marks on Tony’s mouth, where he’s biting gauges into his own lips to hold back the whines.

They’re going to drive the old man crazy—this is going to be worth it for that, all this pain is going to be worth it—  
  
Jesus, fuck. Another hard, grinding shove and Tony feels the jerk of the cock inside him, flooding his burning insides with slimy wetness. The relief that rushes through his mind feels almost as palpable as the jizz that’s being pushed into him and out of him with the guy’s last, urgent thrusts.  
  
Then finally, it’s over, god, it’s done at last and this asshole will let him go now. Tony will pull up whatever’s left of his jeans over his bruised ass, along with the last shreds of his non-existent dignity, and limp home.  
  
Maybe Howard will still be up even, and Tony will pull his best shit-eating grin and this will all be fucking worth it for the look on dear old dad’s face; proving him right in the best way possible that yes, in fact, this is all Tony’s good for after all, fuck you very much.  
  
Muscles does pull out, as expected. But he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t give Tony a chance to reach down for his pants.  
  
“Good job, Soldier,” says a new voice. “Nothing like rewarding yourself after a tough mission, yeah?” Laughter behind him, low and mean—there’s more than a few of them. Tony stiffens all over again, tries to turn his head to look. But the fingers tighten around his neck, hard, unyielding.  
  
“Now, bring the slut over here and hold him down. We gotta let off a little steam, too.”  
  
Tony still can’t wrench free. The nausea is clawing at the back of his throat now, sharp and acerbic.  
  
Or maybe that’s panic.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was originally planning to flesh this out and maybe add a post-CA:CW follow-up with Tony and Bucky coming to terms with what happened... but looks like that might never get written, so I'm posting this bit of awfulness as-is.
> 
> I’m using this to fill the _Assault_ box on my Hurt/Comfort bingo card. 
> 
> Story title is a quote from the movie _Rebel Without A Cause_.
> 
>  **All comments and kudos are cherished!** You can also discuss this story (or anything else) with me on [Imzy](https://www.imzy.com/kaesaria) or [Tumblr](http://kaesaria.tumblr.com/).


End file.
